


Exploring The Spectrum

by gala_apples



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron wakes up to find he can only see in a single colour.</p><p>An AU in which the hunt for horcruxes only takes the summer between sixth and seventh year, and the trio go back to Hogwarts afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exploring The Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Harry/Ron bigbang.

Saturday

If he's not interrupted it takes Ron a long time to drift up through the layers of consciousness before waking up. It's not often that he's not interrupted. Really, he can't remember more than a few occasions where he got to wake up by himself. At Hogwarts it's necessary for Harry to shake him awake, otherwise he never gets up for classes and detention is not something he’s ever wanted.

At home it's the same. Mum comes in and rouses him for breakfast, and while he loves the bacon, sausages, eggs, and essentially anything she makes, he'd like to once, just once, be allowed to sleep in. It was worse when they were all at Grimmauld Place. It would be a shout and a shove of the shoulder awake, and then downstairs to kill doxies. He didn't get to eat until all the Order members who were meant to be there that day were over, which was sometimes well after noon. Now at least there's food.

Even when he was a child, before Hogwarts, there wasn't any peace. Four days out of seven Fred and George might prank him. There was nothing worse than waking up to stinking pyjamas and sheets due to a well thrown dungbomb. Bill would have the items from Brom's apprenticeship scattered over the den table, trying to dismantle the hexes from memory. A good sized explosion from an incorrect spell was enough to wake Ron up all the way on the fourth floor. Then there were all the arguments Charlie had with mum about dragons not being a safe and sane career, and the temper tantrums Ginny frequently had.

But it's the weekend, and Ron is free. Blissfully, gloriously sleeping in, revelling in his incoherent dreams. He never remembers them when he wakes up, but he figures that's better than all the horrid nightmares Harry has, or the prophecies Trelawney used to harp on about.

Neville is in the greenhouses, trying to create some strange hybrid. Ron's not sure why he's out there. It might be one of the tasks set out for the apprenticeship he has with Morson Cuttings.

He's the only one of the five that has any idea what they're going to do after leaving school. Ron is almost jealous. Though gardening isn't exactly what he'd look at as a good career, the fact remains that for Neville it's only a countdown until he leaves school. His NEWT scores don't matter. The owners aren't going to care about a piece of paper as long as he can fulfil the tasks set out for him during the apprenticeship. It might be to impress Professor Sprout, with whom Neville has an almost disturbingly close relationship. It might just be sheer enjoyment. Regardless of the reason, Neville spends nearly every waking moment in the greenhouses, which means he's not there to wake up Ron.

Seamus and Dean are together, undoubtedly with Lavender. Their trio tends to be less worried about peril and destroying evil than Ron's. He doesn't completely envy them though, because they have an over the top amount of feelings about each other. Ron's friendship is easy; Harry is his brother, Hermione his sister. Seamus and Dean and Lavender are all in love with each other, and they all shuffle through the first steps of seduction; distasteful jokes and over affectionate touching, but they never follow through.

Harry is out flying. After the horrible summer they had, they're all in need of some peace, an outlet for everything – unsurprisingly Harry's is flying. Ron knows for a fact that Harry's in contact with both Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, who are excelling on Puddlemere United and the Ballycat Bats. Ron's sure the first Hogsmeade visit that comes up Harry will be off like a shot, organising a spontaneous game.

Hermione is the least likely to come wake him up. Since the first week of returning to Hogwarts she's been revising for NEWTs. Ron only risked his neck once to suggest she was going a little bit overboard, he'll never make that mistake again. The wrath she has when prevented from looking at her texts is rather frightening.

His dreams, the ones he won't remember, are full of swirling colours and flying birds. Even Trelawney wouldn't find anything gruesome to read into it. Unless of course he's going to be drowned in a vat of paint, or pecked to death by cuckoos. There are no canaries in the dream, so it won't be Hermione killing him.

The dream ends as he comes to consciousness. He immediately regrets waking up, because he can feel all the things conspiring against him snuggling into the warm blankets and drifting back into that lovely realm where he's not quite asleep but everything is so restful and his limbs are incredibly heavy. Ron's bladder is full to bursting, his stomach is knotting, he's got heartburn like he ate a dinner of peppers, and his head is throbbing. All together it was a horrible way to wake up.

Part of the reason he's in bed while everyone else in the castle is halfway through their day is because of how incredibly drunk he got last night. Fred and George had snuck into the castle, probably by breaking into Honeydukes, though they hadn't actually mentioned their strategy. Their first and longest stop had been into the Gryffindor common room, though after awhile they had left to meet contacts in Hufflepuff. They had been laden with two wonderful things, either one enough to make them temporary gods of Gryffindor.

The first was a small sack with the same extension charm Hermione's had had. Rather than her beaded thing, Fred's was a lurid green to match the coats they were still fond of. Once the first free product had been passed to Lee Jordan's younger sister, everyone had crowded around wanting to get their hands on something new and cool.

The second was a dozen bottles of Firewhiskey. Sure, it tasted hellish, but a few sips were enough to get anyone who partook tipsy. Some, like Ron, took more than a few sips, and got a bit more than tipsy. Weasley family motto – at least when Mum wasn't around to hear, and even then there had been quite a few stories about the shenanigans she had when she had been younger – was a good night was one you remembered fondly, a great night was one you couldn't remember at all. By those standards, Ron had had one of the best nights ever.

He's paying for it now though. He opens his eyes and the light bleeds through the curtain, making everything orange and piercing. He closes his eyes before groping for the slit and pulling it wider, the last thing he needs is unfiltered sunlight burning into his brain. He shuffles to the bathroom and belches as he pisses before crawling back into bed. There's no need to be awake, especially when the only reward for being awake is headache and nausea.

The second time he wakes, hours later, everything is still orange. It's odd, as the sun is past where it shone through the windows. His head still throbs but his stomach is better – he's starving. As his stomach growls Ron opens the curtains again, this time with intent to get dressed and grab food from the house-elves before going back to bed. He needs more sleep if he's going to get rid of the headache. The only other way is going to Pomfrey and he won't get anything if he reveals he needs it because of a hangover.

There's a plate of sandwiches on the floor beside his bed, Ron grunts out a 'ta, mate' to the Harry who isn't actually there but who had obviously figured out his needs. Everything is still orange but Ron isn't too concerned. It's probably some silly product he'd been dosed with, and seeing orange is better than waking up in blood splattered clothes because of a few slipped nosebleed nougats. He eats the sandwiches and swings his legs back under the blankets. He'll thank Harry for real the next time he wakes.

Sunday

The third time he wakes up, it's obviously Sunday morning. He can hear the slow breathing of his dorm mates, and reckons it's still early early morning, maybe hardly past dawn. But he's been sleeping for almost twenty-four hours, and it doesn't matter if it's far too early to exist, Ron's awake.

He splays his arms out over the pillows and reaches for the headboard as he points his toes, feeling all the muscles in his body quiver. Ron arches up so only his buttocks and shoulders are touching the bed and stretches until he hears the bones in his spine pop. Mum always says he's going to get arthritis if he pops his bones, but Hermione says that's nonsense, and over the years he's learned to trust Hermione when it comes to fact-finding.

Only when he feels fully stretched does he sit up. There's just something about testing your body's limits that makes Ron feel fully awake. He'll never be the type to get up and do a hundred sit-ups, he's not that mental. But a good stretch is almost as important as a full English breakfast followed by seconds.

He scratches his head, only to figure out his hair is disgusting. It's matted to the side of his face, a quick wave proves that there are bits sticking up in the back, and it all feels greasy and limp. Normally Ron's not one for morning showers, they make him feel cold for the rest of the day, but he's in dire need.

His preoccupation with his hair makes it take longer than it normally would to realise the sunshine is the wrong colour. It's not the orange that comes through the red sheets, the same colour it's been every sunny morning since first year. Nor is it the burgundy that shows up when it's bleak and raining in the morning. It's gold, like the sun that comes through his bright orange Chudley Cannons curtains at home, but he's not at home and it doesn't make any sense.

Ron opens the curtains and everything is gold. The curtains are gold, the floor is gold, even the nightstand is gold. He moves his hand to wipe his eyes clear and notices for the first time in his life he doesn't have freckles. His skin is all one tone, which is bright fucking gold, and how does this make sense at all?

The only thing he can think of is some sort of prank; either a fuck you Gryffindors perpetrated by the Slytherins, or a Gryffindor pride backfire by someone like Colin Creevey. If it is, it won't just be him that's seeing in Gryffindor colours, he's got to ask someone.

Not even bothering to slide socks or shoes on, he tramps down the seven flights of stairs. There's not a single person in the common room, and it must be really fucking early for not even Hermione to be awake and studying. He runs back up the spiral stairs, slightly out of breath and slightly dizzy when he reaches the top.

Ron can't bring himself to wake Harry up. Even now, six months after the death of Voldemort he's still having nightmares. When Harry's sleeping soundly Ron sure as fuck isn't going to wake him, the guilt would kill him.

He's got no such compulsion about Seamus though. He opens the curtains around his bed widely, rings making snick noises as they skip over the metal rod. Seamus looks entirely gold too, a slightly different shade than Ron's skin, which makes sense as normally Seamus is extremely tan and Ron's fairly pale. Seamus doesn't wake up at the solid shake. Normally Ron wouldn't be so cruel, but he's starting to freak out and he needs to be reassured that this is some fucked up prank and everything is going to be okay. He reaches out and tugs on Seamus' hair, hard, and keeps doing it until Seamus shouts "The fuck!" and half-sits up.

"Is everything gold?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Why is your hand in my fucking hair?" Seamus isn't the best morning person on a normal day, and that it's Ron waking him up with violence, instead of Dean with a few jokes and a reminder that tea is in the Great Hall probably isn't helping.

"Is everything gold? Can you see only gold?"

"Ron, what the fuck are you talking about? Did you try to hex me?"

Oh Merlin. Seamus isn't seeing differently, it's just him. There's something wrong with his vision, and there was something wrong with his vision yesterday. The only thing it could be is a joke, one of Fred and George's unfunny fucking jokes.

Ron stands outwardly placid as rage quickly bubbles through his mind. Fred and George fucking know that it is not okay to fuck around with Ron's body. They can use their Extending Ears to spy on him, their Peruvian Darkness Powder to make him fall down a flight of stairs, Ron doesn't care. But fucking around with his body is not acceptable.

He walks stiffly over to his trunk and gets dressed. For the first time he's happy the school uniform is robes, because he doesn't have to worry that things are mismatched. "Ron, seriously, why did you wake me up? Is there a problem?"

"Sod off." He doesn't have time for conversation with Seamus. He's got to get up to the Owlery as soon as possible.

"Well fine. Fuck you too. Arsehole." He doesn't look but hears the shuffle of fabric that means Seamus is rolling over and going back to sleep. Good.

The trip to the Owlery is disorienting. It's not that it's hard to see the floor or walls. Everything is still clearly there, just in shades of gold. It's the fact that all the stone walls are gold that fucks with him. He's walked these halls a hundred times, but they seem wrong now.

There's a box mounted on the wall of the Owlery with spare paper, envelopes, and quills for those who forgot and don't want to trek all the way back to their dorm. Ron borrows all, and attempts to write 93 Diagon Alley on the front, in case Pig gets a little lost. It's difficult since the ink is only the slightest of shades different than the paper. Still, it doesn't matter how messy his writing is, only that the meaning hits his brothers.

 _Fred and George,  
What the fuck do you think you're doing? You promised after I came back that you'd never play pranks that change my body. I don't know why this isn't wearing off. What spell do I have to say? If you told me while I was drunk, I don't remember it. This is not okay, you have to tell me how I can make this stop, ~~I'm starting to freak out~~ You better write back as soon as you get this!  
Ron_

He ties the note to Pig's leg and instructs him to go see Fred and George, and give them a good hard peck and nip their fingers when he gets there. The note shouldn't take too long to arrive. Until then he's going to go back to bed, so he can close his eyes and not look at the disturbed surroundings his failed body is showing him.

Monday

He wakes up Monday morning to Harry shaking him awake, as normal. The difference is Harry – and everything else Ron can see – is blue. He can't help the slight whimper that escapes his lips.

Unfortunately Harry hears it. He can hardly not, with his face about a foot from Ron's, straddling him. His expression immediately turns from slight amusement and determination to worry. "What's the matter?"

Ron wants to tell him. Part of him wants nothing more than to burst into tears and tell Harry his body is falling apart _again_ , and he doesn't know how to make it stop, _again_. Harry handled it fairly well on their summer quest, considering all the stress they were all under. It's not that Harry will make it all better, Ron's not five and Harry's not his mum. It's just that Harry will get that look of cool competence on his face, and Ron's burden will be lighter.

But he can't. The reason Ron's burden would be lighter is because Harry would be shouldering it, and Ron won't do that. Harry's carried enough since birth that he's got shoulders of steel. It's only in the last few months that he's started to relax again, and Ron refuses to be the one that brings the stress back in.

"Got a cramp in my leg," he wheezes out, faking a pained look. Harry shuffles his way down Ron's body and puts a hand on his knee. He asks which one and Ron nearly smiles when he says the right leg and Harry starts to massage it. Swish, flick and spell, he's bought it. He owes Fred and George a thanks for teaching him how to lie so well.

Fred and George... their letter should be arriving with Pig at breakfast. And this must be their fault, some bloody sweet forced on him that’s gone wrong. They'll be apologetic, and he'll lord it over them. Ron'll pretend that their relationship isn't damaged because they've done the exact thing they solemnly promised never to, and Fred and George will pretend they don't notice when he shies away from the arms slung around shoulders. It'll be shitty, but it'll be fixed, and it doesn't matter if he'll never forget, because no one will ever forget Percy's hurtful words, but family is more important than betrayal.

The letter will say exactly what potion Hermione will have to make or charm she'll have to look up to reverse whatever they've done. They might be dumb enough to break a vow, but Ron doesn't think for a moment that they'll draw it out. Not something so important. Everything will be alright once Pig drops the letter in his porridge, and that's what Ron focuses on to stop himself from letting the building panic overwhelm him.

"Better yet?" Harry questions, fingers still kneading.

"Yeah, thanks mate." Harry crawls off him but hovers by the side of the bed. "What?"

"Sometimes after you cramp it's hard to put weight on it. Wouldn't want you to fall and brain yourself."

The thought is kind, and for a moment Ron feels like a bastard for lying to him. But it's better than ruining Harry's happiness with the truth, so he pretends to step onto the floor cautiously, and makes a show of standing steadily on both feet.

"Ta-da!" he says, and waves Harry off so he can get dressed. And it's moments like these that Ron's going to miss after they leave school. Not the terror he's desperately trying to suppress, though funnily enough that emotion was a great portion of all his most memorable Hogwarts moments. It's scenes like this, the mass migration of textbooks and parchment into rucksacks, Dean repeatedly yawning through brushing his teeth and the white flakes that speckle onto his robe, the basic facts of dorm life that he never wants to forget. In a few months he's going to leave school and he won't have any roommates, and it's going to be horribly lonely and boring.

Neville is charming his Herbology books to look like Transfigurations and Ancient Runes. Ron's never had Vector, but he's positive Professor McGonagall is going to notice Neville being far too engrossed in the chapter they were supposed to read for class. He's going to get found out, and Ron looks forward to the rant that will break up the monotony of Monday's theory-only class.

Seamus and Harry, both in trousers and jumpers, lean for the same discarded robe on the floor. Ron watches, amused as they start to bicker for a moment about which of them it belongs to, both telling elaborate tales of why it must be theirs. They've been arguing since fifth year, and the second it became not about whether or not Harry was lying about You Know Who, Ron stopped breaking them up. With six siblings, bickering seems like a normal and healthy part of a relationship. And he's got no idea of who it belongs to anyway. They're both the same build and height, which is ridiculously small when compared to Ron or Neville or Dean. Ron's Sickles are on Seamus, if they were Harry's they'd probably smell of broomstick polish, but when Harry shrugs it on he doesn't comment.

There's the general push and shove of who's going down the stairs first, who's standing where on the walk to the Great Hall. Neville breaks off first. Ron's willing to bet anything he's going to check on his plants before his first class. Seamus and Dean are next, together, a bit further down the table. There's a slight space between them, ample space on either side. Ron wonders where Lavender is going sit when she comes down, and how it will affect the mood of the day.

Hermione's at the table, chewing on the first of a teetering pile of toast, one of the easier things to eat when holding a book open with the other hand. Harry doesn't even bother to snicker quietly. Seven years of some things are just unarguable.

Ron takes almost the entire plate of sausages, much to Hermione's chagrin. He tells her if she wants some, she can just take them off his plate. He's not sure if she's wincing because he's saying it through a full mouth – after seven years she still hates it, after seven years she too must know better about trying to change facts – or because the idea seems unsanitary, but it's said and it's her choice.

The Hogwarts owned barn owls begin to swoop in and it's like a rain of parchment as the brown (except they're blue, they're blue) creatures drop the letters from high above without stopping. None of the personal owls behave the same. Instead they fly down to their owners and demand a piece of breakfast with mournful hoots, placing the letters where their owners can easily reach. All except Pig, who seems to think the Hogwarts owls are majestic, or cool, and has to fly ten feet above Ron's head to drop the letter directly on his hair before landing gently on the table.

Half the table is laughing, but Ron couldn't care less. He tears the envelope with unsteady hands and skims the words quickly. It's not quite as hard to read as it was to write yesterday, there are more shades of blue than there are of gold.

 

 _Ron  
We wouldn't do that. To be honest, we're a mite offended you think we would. We know what happened, we know why you asked us to never do it, and we know how much it cost your pride to ask. We wouldn't break a promise that actually meant something. Yeah, you walked around for about a half hour with a headless hat on, but that's it. We're not sure what you think we did, but if it's bad, write to us and we'll sneak in again to figure it out.  
F&G_

The words wreck him. George and Fred haven't betrayed him, and Ron can't feel anything but grateful for that. But whatever's wrong with him isn't their fault, which means anything could be wrong with him. He can't do this again. He just can't. He closes his eyes tightly against the world and tries to figure out what he's going to do next.

Tuesday

Harry's hands are warm on his side, is Ron's first coherent thought as he moves into consciousness. It quickly becomes apparent with a goose-bumped arm poked out like an insect's feeler that it's because his duvet is in a useless heap on the floor. The long sleeved shirt and y-fronts he wears to bed each night are doing nothing to keep him warm.

"Mlumfp," he groans and is rewarded for the attempt at speech with Harry unceremoniously tossing the entire blanket back over him. It's cold from the floor, but it's better than nothing.

"It's time to get up." Ron groans again, more concerned with covering his icy feet than what time breakfast finishes.

"Ron, you've got until I finish getting dressed to get up. About three minutes." Harry says firmly but kindly before walking away with the corresponding rustling that signals said dressing.

Ron languishes for a moment, depressed that his blanket will only just start taking on his temperature as he has to crawl out of it. Then he realises with a wince what Harry must be thinking.

It's not the first time Ron's woken up without a blanket on. The problem is the other times were all times he's been in high states of worry, and Harry sodding well _knows_ it. Ron doesn't have to open his eyes to know Harry's looking at him with that thoughtful, trying-too-hard-to-be-Hermione face. He won't go as far as to ask, but he'll try to figure it out himself.

Ron hears the shuffling that means Harry's getting closer and sits upright. "I'm up, I'm up, sod off, no bloody drenching spell."

"That's step three, we were only on step two. Nothing as drastic yet." Harry's grinning, Ron can hear it in his voice. A grin is better to see than to hear, and considering the scarcity all the more important, so Ron opens his eyes. Sure enough, Harry's got a wide smile, and its bright brown. Ron sucks in a breath and begins to compile the courage he'll need later.

He gets dressed quickly, still cold. He tries to ignore that Harry looks at him piercingly when he casts a warming charm, tries not to hear the silence between them. Ron takes off for the stairs, claiming something silly about so hungry he'll eat all the fried eggs in the castle and Harry begins to chase him, shouting over his dead body. It's a bit over the top, but neither of them is good with uncomfortable silences.

They spend the entire breakfast playing the I'm Not Staring game. Ron fucking hates it, hates every variation from the I've Got A Crush version that at least two girls have used since returning for his seventh year, to the You're My Hero version that he'd expect from first years, but is disturbing from Professor Flitwick to the I'm Staring Just To Make You Think You've Got Something On Your Cheek version the twins were so fond of.

Ron utterly loathes that Harry is looking at the side of his face every moment except any time Ron turns to look back. It's a stalemate, because Harry's not going to come straight out and ask him why he had a restless night, and Ron's not going to tell him. Things are made worse by Hermione watching Harry watch Ron, and while Ron can at least imagine what Harry's thinking, Hermione's thoughts like the far side of the moon and totally impossible to see from Earth.

They've got Defence, all three of them. Neville might be the only one with a solid future, but by seventeen most teens know what they enjoy, and Ron enjoys protecting himself and others. He knows Harry feels the same, and Hermione would take every course Hogwarts offered, if she didn't know it lead to nervous breakdown a la third year.

Ron doesn't care though, not today. Normally he'd be the first sitting, but instead he follows behind Harry and Hermione as they make their way to the classroom. They hold a normal conversation, comments tossed over the shoulder like any other time they walk in a 2-1 or 1-2 formation. Harry and Hermione each other look behind them once, but it's enough. Even the smallest break in pattern is massive if the pattern's been set for seven years. They know something's wrong, and the first time he runs off to the loo tonight in the common room they're going to conspire.

He waits until Professor Enttes steps into the room before saying he's left his essay in the textbooks by his bed. They don't really believe him, but it goes against Hermione's grain to let Ron fail a class, so when he raises his hand and makes the same excuse to Enttes neither contradicts him. Enttes scowls but lets him go, admonishing him to hurry.

Ron, of course, has done nothing of the kind. The essay is tucked into Harry's rucksack with a good sleight of hand, and unless he's underestimated how peeved Harry's going to be, he'll hand it in and he'll lose no marks. But he needs a reason to get away from their watchful eyes, and more time to think of a plausible excuse.

It takes courage to walk up to Madame Pomfrey's quarters. The moment he's on her wing he's committed, no choice in the matter. She's got an anti-hovering charm so he'll keep walking forward until he's in the room and under her gaze. It's more for those that are embarrassed to get help, those who would rather suffer from a sexually transmitted disease than admit to having one, but it works just as well for those that are terrified to get help.

"Mr Weasley," she says a modicum of warmth in her voice. Ron shivers, hearing all the intent in the world beneath the kindness.

"I've been seeing things differently," he rushes out. The quicker this conversation happens, the quicker he can be the fuck out of the hospital wing.

"You finally received twenty-twenty correction? I understand that seeing clearly can be a bit of an adjustment, but I will not participate in a removal of the charm, and I doubt your mother—"

"YOU LEAVE MY MOTHER OUT OF THIS," he finds himself shouting.

"Ron! My word..."

"I'm sorry," he grits. She won't help him if he's offended her. She might conspire to make things worse. "Just, leave my mother out of all of this."

"What's the problem, Mr Weasley?"

"I said. I've been seeing things differently. That's it."

"Differently _how_?" she asks in a tone that belies she thinks he's being difficult on purpose. Well, tough for her.

"I've been seeing in only one colour at a time. Today everything is shades of brown."

"I can't think of anything offhand. Go back to class, and I'll look over a few ocular texts."

Ron can't decide which is more terrifying, that she's never heard of what's wrong with him, or that she wants him to come back again. "That's it?"

"Surely you don't imagine I know every illness ever experienced, Mr Weasley? While possibly distracting, there's nothing dangerous in seeing in monotone. Go back to class, and come back tomorrow."

Ron stalks out, attempting to slam the door behind him. It must have a spell on it, because the satisfying crash never comes. He casts another warming spell, trying to convince himself that he's just still cold, not scared and coming down from unused adrenaline. It's a hard sell.

 

Wednesday

  
It's the second day in a row Ron wakes up shivering. It's an abrupt thrust into the day, without a good morning to accompany it. In fact, his rousing is completely the opposite of a friendly push into consciousness. He can't be sure, but he has the distinct impression that Harry woke him by kicking him in the arse.

It's not that he doesn't know Harry's upset with him. Even if he's been accused of having the emotional range of a teaspoon, he knows well enough when his mates are upset.

Hermione was furious about him skipping Defence, but he just couldn't go back. Ron ended up sinking to the floor in one of the hallways on the way to the classroom, hands curled around his shins, eyes tightly shut against the confusing brown world. When he finally saw them again at lunch she demanded to know how he was supposed to be a brilliant Auror if he missed the classes he most needed. He'd stumbled for words, hit with the sudden realisation that Auror just might be the best solution to his cluelessness about careers. Finally reassuring her that his assignment did get handed in had done nothing to calm her.

Harry just got that disappointed look. It's the same expression his mum uses on him, and it was almost worse than the staring-not-staring. He hadn't understood, until Harry had muttered _it’s not like I would have told Enttes_. Harry felt left out for not being told he was skipping out, and Ron felt guilty but sure that his way was better.

Ron opens his eyes to find a yellow world. He can't help the wince, which gets bigger as he sees Harry is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Harry's expression is utter misery, and it hurts Ron to see it.

"Why're you flinching?" he questions.

"Another cramp. Wanna help again?" he comes up with quickly. His leg is fine, of course, but it's not like getting a leg massage from Harry is a hard price to pay.

"I fucking hate it when you lie to me Ron. Since when do we bloody lie to each other? Couldn't you just say you don't want to talk about it? You need to get up now." Harry's voice is flat, and he turns and walks away after he's done speaking.

Ron swallows and almost blurts out his problem. But it's still better to have Harry angry with him than bringing stress back into his life. He lets Harry leave the dorm before he stands to put his robe on.

Harry sits with Hermione for Potions. It's the first time since their fight in fourth year, which Dean comments on loudly. Ron glares at him, but Dean glares right back. Seamus is sitting at the next table with Lavender – how he won today, Ron isn't sure, he tries not to pay too much attention to the showmanship that happens each breakfast – and Dean is clearly unhappy about it.

In Herbology Harry's avoidance is even more noticeable. Sprout isn't the type to care if her students have conversations, as long as the work gets done. Harry doesn't look at Ron, edges away if he approaches.

Ron lasts until lunch. It's kind of scary to know his tolerance for uncomfortable situations is so low, but then he already knew that. If it wasn't for Bill, he never would have survived.

Harry and Hermione are sitting across the table from him. To an outsider it would look friendly, but neither has said a word in the last twenty minutes. It's grating on his nerves like the tines of a fork on a plate, and finally he bursts out, "Knowing isn't always better!"

"I think we're all aware of the concept ignorance is bliss, Ron." Hermione says coldly. Ron would be willing to bet at least half of the irritation is at the insinuation that she doesn't know a basic concept. "But since when does that apply to us?"

"When it's you!" It's loud enough to attract the attention of several Gryffindors down the table, but from the looks he's getting from those that matter it's not loud enough to be clear. "You two've been happy since we came back to Hogwarts. Why would I want to bugger that up?"

"Because you're having nightmares again." It's funny that Harry would say that, he doesn't remember any. But then, he doesn't usually remember his dreams.

"I can handle them," he says curtly. He won't look up from his pale yellow chicken because he can't see their faces. Ron's not sure on expression, but he's sure they won't be friendly.

"Because there's obviously something wrong."

"I can handle that too."

"Because we're your best mates, you moronic twat!" Ron's head flies up, eyes widening as he stares at Hermione. It's the first time he's ever heard her use such language. Not even on their quest for Horcruxes had she sworn. "We're your friends, and we deserve to know if you've got a problem."

"Telling you makes it your problem, and that's not fair."

"And it was fair of me to make you and Hermione fight Voldemort?"

"That's different. We chose that."

"And we're choosing to know now. So bloody tell us."

"I've been hexed."

"Who the hell hexed you?" It's the question Ron was expecting, but not by the proper person. Seamus seems infuriated at the idea. And a glance at the long house table shows the Irish man is by far not the only one interested in their conversation. Ron really should have been expecting this. If he'd thought he never would have started this conversation in the Great Hall. But he's screwed now. Even if he refuses to say, Seamus will only pester him until he finds out.

"I don't know. I thought it might have been Fred and George, but—"

"They wouldn't. You know they wouldn't. Not now."

Harry's voice is firm, not allowing for argument. Ron nods. "Yeah, I know." Ron doesn't know how much the average student knows about what happened in the summer, he's never had the courage or interest needed to start that conversation. But they obviously know that his family had a part in it, because none of the eavesdroppers comment about Fred and George actually quite liking pranking.

"I went to Pomfrey."

There's a small pause, and he hears a few of them making _well, duh_ noises, but it's Harry and Hermione's reactions he wants. He wants them to be impressed with his bravery, as lame as his need for recognition is, it's still true. Harry's _really?_ and Hermione's _oh, Ron_ don't disappoint.

"She doesn't know what's wrong either. She wants me to come see her later, when she's had a chance to figure things out."

"You need to go back?" Sympathy, he should hate the sympathy, but coming from Harry it's somehow alright.

"Sod it, mate. We'll figure it out." Neville's voice has sympathy too, and so maybe some of them do know details. "What's wrong?"

"I can only see one colour. It keeps changing. Today everything is yellow." Ron shrugs. "It's not like it's dangerous. I just wish I knew what it was."

"We'll figure it out." Harry sits up straighter as he says it, his posture visibly stiffens. It was as if Atlas had been given a break, before shouldering his burden once again. Ron winces. It's exactly what he'd predicted, exactly what he didn't want.

"I bet Hermione finds the answer days before Pomfrey does," Seamus says, and though he means it as reassuring all Ron can think of is having this problem for days before getting Pomfrey to fix things. It's not a good feeling.

Thursday

The hand on his clothed arm is warm, and Ron's mind is torn between disgust at always waking up cold and wishing the damn stress would stop and grateful that Harry is like a human furnace. He has the distinct impression that Seamus' or Dean's or Neville's hands wouldn't be nearly so warm. And Neville's hands would smell of soil, and Dean's would be pointy due to his long artistic fingers, and Seamus' would be rough and calloused. Yeah, Harry is definitely the proper choice in people to wake him up.

"So, what's the colour of the world today?"

Ron has half a mind to tell Seamus to sod off, but even with his eyes closed he can feel Harry staring, silently needing to know. So he opens his eyes, because it's no longer just his problem. "Red," he sighs, "the world is red today."

"You should go back to Pomfrey," Dean suggests.

"That's not your choice," Harry snaps back.

"Er, okay?" Dean's visibly confused about Harry's reply, and for about the thirtieth time Ron wonders if it might not just be easier to explain the summer to his dorm mates, to the Gryffindors, to the world through a newspaper article. He wouldn't trust Rita as far as he could throw her, but the Quibbler is reliable.

Still, he's not quite ready for that level of honesty and dredging up the past. Before Harry and Dean can start bickering, which unlike Harry and Seamus' regular routine can only get ugly, Ron jumps in. "Yeah, I guess I should. Later though."

He makes it through morning classes without it coming up again. In Transfigurations Neville hisses at him that his armchair is the wrong colour but Hermione flicks her wand to fix it without comment before McGonagall has a chance to question him. But at lunch he takes the spiced meat rather than the un-spiced because he can't see the difference. As he's spluttering and drinking enough water to drown a kelpie he resigns himself to seeking help.

"I've got to go." He doesn't say where, but they know. Hermione reaches out and winds her fingers between his. They might not be dating like everyone seems to expect of them, but he still finds comfort in her touch.

"I'll go with you." Harry's words are sincere, but there is a heaviness to them, and Ron's not about to put up with that.

"No, you go to Charms. And don't forget to duplicate your notes, Hermione's are way too detailed for the normal, sane person." It's weak, at best, but Harry laughs at Hermione's scowl, so Ron can smile.

Contrary to his insinuated promise, Ron doesn't go straight to the hospital wing. He tries, even makes it as far as the fourth floor. But standing at the top of the stairs he just can't force himself turn left and face her yet.

Instead Ron sits in the clock tower and tries to slow his breathing to an acceptable level. Hyperventilating will only aid flashbacks, and that's just about the last thing he needs right now. He slowly changes his rhythm to the ticking of the clock and tries to think of absolutely nothing, because any thought leads right back to _I need to be looked at by a Healer_ which leads right to _I can't do this again_.

He hears the booming noises that signal the hours going by, and doesn't care. He has the right to get his emotions under control before forcing himself to do something so mind numbingly scary as visit a Mediwitch. Hermione will be wondering where he is, wanting to search him out and help him while Harry will be trying to placate her and make her back off. Unless it's the other way around; Harry's protective streak is just as large as Hermione's.

Eventually Ron stands and leaves the gears. He pauses, resting against the wall so he can breathe deeply, but her bloody anti-loitering spell forces him forward until he's opening the door.

"Ah, Mr Weasley. I believe I have a few ideas about your condition. If you'd undress and—"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

She sounds confused, but Ron will never trust his senses about a Healer again. Confusion is just as easy to fake as compassion or knowledge. He crosses his arms and grounds out "Why would I need to get undressed?"

"If you have any rashes or other physical symptoms it will narrow down the possibilities. You need to trust me, Mr Weasley."

Ron can't stop the snort that comes at the thought of trusting her. But if he acquiesces to her demands, this will be over more quickly. If he shuts up and lets her do her thing, he won't have to spend his days having conversations with his eyes closed because it's better than seeing the colour and realising how out of control he is.

He takes off his robe and tosses it on the hard raised mattress. When he unbuckles his belt his trousers collapse onto the floor, he struggles to step out of them before taking off his trainers. His wand is behind him on the bed, and if this is a repeat of the summer, nude or not he's going to go down fighting. It will not happen a second time.

Ron takes a deep breath before pushing his y-fronts down. She's staring at him, and he's torn between telling her to stop being so bloody creepy, and stammering an excuse like _it's cold in here_.

His jumper and shirt come off last. The buttons are hard to undo while his hands are shaking, the tiny ones at the cuff of his sleeves even more so. But they finally open, and he can slide the light white cloth off his shoulders.

That's when Pomfrey gasps, a hard intake of air that matches the stunned look on her face. Ron's hand automatically darts to the shaft of his wand, but she doesn't move or do anything else suspicious.

"Your arms," she finally says. "The scars…"

The tension ratcheting in his body breaks and Ron rolls his eyes. So the scars are extensive, curling around his limbs like a bag of yarn exploded on his arms. She's a fucking Healer, she should be used to things like that. Where's the bloody bedside manner?

"I've had them since fifth year. Me and Harry and Hermione fought a bunch of Death Eaters." So be fucking grateful that we saved the goddamn world instead of giving me grief he finishes mentally, not quite angry enough to say it out loud.

"I know when you got them, and I know what they're supposed to look like. These scars are red, Mr Weasley."

All scars are red, and if she doesn't stop talking about them he'll fucking well walk out and wait three years until one of the Gryffindors graduates Mediwitch training school to get Healed. Ron crosses his arms – already starting to goose-bump – and waits for her to get on with it.

"Mr Weasley I am not your mother getting upset at the sight of her little boy having scars. I'm telling you as a medical professional that your normally light pink scars are bright red. Rose red, Gryffindor red, how many descriptors do I have to use?"

He looks at his arms, trying to see what she's talking about, but of course everything he sees is different shades of red. The lines of slightly puckered skin he can always feel can't be seen in his new eyesight.

He runs his fingertips over the length of his arm. It feels the same as it always does, slightly raised skin that makes him shiver when touched lightly. "They don't feel different?"

"No? Let me—" she's in mid-sentence when she touches his arm and drops like a sack of potatoes to the floor.

Ron stares at her lifeless body. For an uncountable amount of time he just looks at her crumpled body. And then he closes his eyes, it's so obscene to look at her when he can only see red. And when his eyes open again he's in the Owlery, and he's got a letter in hand, addressed to Bill. He congratulates himself on the wise decision and ties the letter to Pig before sitting on the floor. Owl dung and rancid smell be damned, he couldn't move if he had to.

Friday

Ron wakes up alone, shivering from the wind gusting through the open windows. It's almost cold enough to see his breath. When he opens his eyes to see if he can, he flinches hard and recoils into the wall. It figures that the moment he got the slightest bit used to seeing in monotone a new and difficult dimension would be added on.

Today everything is silver. The owls, the walls, they're all metallic grey. With the shutterless windows letting the sun shine in and pick up the metallic flecks, everything is shining cruelly. Ron peeks through a slightly opened eye and closes it again. The shine burns, and how is he going to make it through today?

Before he has much of a chance to think, he feels the distinct feel of an owl flying directly into the back of his head. Considering he's in the Owlery, it's not much of a surprise. He leans to the side to let the animal pass. Instead the owl's beak clamps down on a section of hair and starts pulling. He swats at it, but it stays firmly in place for at least a minute before letting go.

That's when a letter drops onto his thigh. Ron scurries into the shadows of the room before attempting to read it, the silver glare isn't as bright there. It's short and to the point. _Where the fuck are you?_

It's Bill's writing, and he doesn't remember what he wrote to him last night, doesn't remember anything except pacing back and forth over the owl dung thinking _I killed her, I killed her, I killed her_ but obviously the note scared Bill enough to make him travel across England. And while it's not fair to drag his eldest brother into his messes, God does he want Bill's help.

He scribbles back _the Owlery_ and the owl takes the letter back. He thinks he might vaguely recognise it from Bill's place, but it doesn't really matter. Suddenly exhausted he collapses back down to the cold and filthy floor.

"Ron, what the _hell_?" are Bill's first words as the door bursts open.

"I killed her. I don't know how, but I killed her, and I don't know—"

"You're naked." Bill interrupts calmly, immediately taking on the role needed. Bill's always been really good at that, the best in the family at being what others need. "Where are your clothes?"

"They're in the hospital wing, with her body. Oh God Bill, I killed her and I'll—"

"I'm going to run down to your dorm to get you new clothes. Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone."

"Crazy?" the word burbles out of his unbelieving mouth. "I killed someone, Bill, I think crazy is pretty much covered al—"

"We'll do that bit next. Just stand there, don't go jumping out of the window. Everything can be solved, I'll be right back."

When Bill gets back, trousers and shirt in hand, Ron doesn't ask how a man of twenty-eight, someone not even employed at the school, got into the dorms. "Stand up," he orders. Ron doesn't move. He's too tired for trying to make things better. Bill begins to cross the room, and damned if he isn't wearing the same expression he used to while babysitting him and Ginny and the twins.

"No, you can't pick me up, it's not safe, you can't—" Ron babbles desperately.

"You stand up, or I'll stand you up. It's a choice, Ron, make it." Bill is still coming at him, and Ron does the only thing he can do; he stands up.

"Your legs are covered in owl shit. Where's your wand?"

"I left it when-"

"Okay. That's fine." Bill interrupts smoothly. "I'll just use my wand." It feels different when another person Scourgifies you, but Ron is grateful to be clean. He puts on the clothes Bill's brought him.

"Now, let’s go talk to Minerva."

"No. I can't, I can't."

"Ron. Stop. Depending on if you did what you think you did, the Ministry might get involved. If they do, it'll be much better for you if the Headmistress is on your side. Let's go." At this moment, Bill really could be Charlie, soothing a blustering dragon. Only Charlie was never good with people, only animals. Ron lets himself be led with an arm around the shoulder to the Headmistress' office.

"I've been waiting for you," she says as the door slides open. It's eerie, but on the other hand, they didn't know the password so it was probably a good thing. McGonagall directs them to the chairs opposite her desk and they sit, Bill with an alert but causal posture, Ron not even trying to pretend he's in any way okay. The chairs aren't comfortable, they're like the normal desk chairs in Transfigurations, but does Azkaban even have chairs? Will he ever get to sit on a chair again?

"That was entirely the wrong way to handle that situation," she informs him primly.

"I'm sorry, I'll do better next time," Ron says before a hysterical laugh comes out. He's killed someone, he's about to be sent to prison, a realisation that hadn't set in until Bill's comment about the Ministry, and she's criticising him on handling 'situations' like he's still a bloody prefect?

He can't seem to stop laughing. Everything in the bright room glitters in a way that sears his eyes, and he's _killed_ someone, something he never even had to do during their summer hunting Horcruxes and fighting Death Eaters, and he just. Can't. Stop. Laughing.

Bill says _Ron_ at the same time as McGonagall says _Ronald_ , and he can hear the fear, but it doesn't matter. This is the true definition of horror, he knows that. He's laughing so he won't start screaming, because he thinks if he does he might never stop.

"Ron, she's not dead. Running away was the wrong choice, but she's not dead." If there's any words to stop his mad laughter, it's those.

"She's…" He can't look to her face to hunt for lies, she's sitting right under a light and the silver will burn his eyes out. But she couldn't possibly lie about something so important, could she?

"Poppy was unconscious for a period of a few hours before waking. She's in her own ward right now, being watched by Professor Flitwick, but we're as confident as it's possible to be with an unknown affliction that she'll be okay."

"Thank fucking God." Bill says it, but Ron feels the words to the depths of his soul.

"But Mr Weasley, we have to speak about your future. Poppy thinks it would be best if you went to St. Mungo's."

"No." Ron's surprised – no, impressed – with the amount of control in his voice.

"They have far more detailed books, staff with a combined knowledge of hundreds of years."

"No."

"Minerva, I really don't think it's a possibility." Normally it would throw Ron off to hear his brother call his Headmistress by her first name, but it's the least of what's on his mind right now.

"They could help you. What happened last night proves that you need more help than Madame Pomfrey can give you. It would be the safest for all considered."

"No. I won't. I can't. I won't hurt anyone, please don't send me there. I won't go, I'll drop out like Fred and George before I let your authority put me in that place. You can't make me go!" It's the bluster of a man that needs to protect himself, pure Gryffindor bullshit.

"I rather thought you'd react like that. Mr Potter and Miss Granger have informed me of your ordeal."

"They told you?" No one had ever promised to never speak of it, but it was the sort of thing Ron didn't think had to be said.

"When you weren't present for dinner they searched for you. They found Poppy, and they seemed adamant on convincing me to give you the time to deal with it yourself." Ah, so they both went looking, and they both convinced each other to back off. Ron can't say he's surprised.

"Under Poppy's strong disapproval, I'm keeping you here. It seems only your scars can hurt those around you, for a reason unknown. As a condition of your staying, you must wear long sleeved shirts at all times." Ron thinks back through the last week, all the times Harry's woken him up, the danger he was in with only a thin piece of fabric between his hand and unconsciousness. He'll have to figure out a new method of waking-up, he's not going to risk Harry again.

"Mr Weasley, you have a month. I'm quite certain Mr Potter and Miss Granger will be combing for solutions. I've instructed Poppy to continue searching for answers as well. At the end of that time, we'll have to acquiesce to the considerable knowledge of the St. Mungo's staff."

If there's anything Ron knows, it's that nothing aside from an Imperio will get him inside St. Mungo's. From the shining silver look of doubt on Bill's face he knows it too. But pretending gets him a month of trying, and he hasn't gone this far in life without knowing to trust Harry and Hermione.

Saturday

Out of all the people Ron thought would come up with an answer to his problem, Neville is last on his list. It's not that he thinks Neville doesn't care. Neville's a stand up bloke, and he'd probably try to help any Gryffindor in a situation like his. And it's not that he thinks Neville's a duffer. He might not be in many NEWTs classes, but then Fred and George didn't get any.

It's just, Neville's busy. Ron and Harry and Seamus and Dean are (mostly) mucking about, enjoying their last year of school. Hermione's busy, but Hermione knows better than most how to schedule her busyness into an order that makes it look easy. Neville's different, he's got a goal. He's got things he has to do to make sure he can have what he's always wanted when he leaves.

So when Neville comes up to him midday Saturday, when Ron's sitting on the common room with Harry and Hermione, eyes tightly closed against the green tint that makes him feel like he's stuck in the Slytherin dorms Ron doesn't think anything of it. He smells him rather than sees him; Neville always smells like the richest soil, grass and mud and the tiniest bit of dung, but in a good way. He murmurs hi at the same time that Hermione does.

"I think I've got it," Neville says, voice ringing with confidence. Ron thinks nothing of it, adjusting slightly so his spine isn't digging into the back of the couch as hard. Neville was up before any of the rest of the Gryffindors, out in the greenhouses. Ron would be willing to bet he was up before the House Elves were making breakfast. Neville's finished a task for his apprenticeship, he's bragging a bit before calling Colin to photograph it for proof like he has to with every task.

"Well, not it it. I don't know how to cure it. But I know how to figure out who did it, and why they did it."

Ron opens his eyes. Neville's grin is minty green against leafy lips, and Ron doesn't want to believe him because it's too good. He's been on the brink of meltdown – has actually had a meltdown twice – for the last week, and if Neville is fucking around, or worse, has made a mistake in what he's figured out, than Ron doesn't want to experience the crash that comes from having your hopes lifted.

Harry somehow knows, because he's the one to ask "What do you mean? What's your idea?"

"There's this mushroom. It makes you see things."

"I really doubt that shrooms are the answer, Neville." That's Hermione, and Ron is equal parts embarrassed and grateful that his friends are protecting him like a baby.

"Not muggle psilocybin mushrooms. These are magical mushrooms. Well, magicaler. You don't see strange things that push the boundaries of your opinion of reality, you see things that are true about your reality, but that were hidden. Things you know, but you don't know you know. They're one of the ingredients in veritaserum."

"You have some? Neville!" The conversation of drugs has never really come up, but it doesn't surprise Ron that Hermione's against them. Ron doesn't really care one way or the other. It's hard to be anti-drug when all of your older, successful siblings take them on a semi-frequent basis.

"I don't have them, I grow them. There's a difference, and since when does me growing plants surprise anyone?" It's hard to think of Neville Longbottom in a dealer role, but it's also hard to think of him denying somebody that he thought had the need of a joint. Ron decides he's just going to stay out of it.

Meanwhile, Harry and Hermione are both staring at Neville like he's gone mad. Neville withstands for a minute and then he crumples. "Fine. That was my best work. Do what you—"

"It's illegal?" Ron interrupts.

"It's illegal, but it will work. You'll know who did this to you, and why."

Ron only has to consider it for a second. He's done half a dozen illegal things since arriving at Hogwarts, running the gamut from helping raise a dragon to breaking into the Ministry. Taking potions ingredients is hardly a shock to the system. "Right. I should follow you to the greenhouses then?"

"No. I've got some in my pocket."

"There are first years in this common room, Neville!" Ron can't help but snicker at Hermione, she gets so indignant when she puts on her Head Girl hat.

"Yeah, well, I thought you'd all be a lot more enthusiastic for helping Ron, is all." And that is definitely a sucker punch. "Let's go to the dorm, so we can figure this out." Harry's face has the offended into motivation reaction Neville seems to have been looking for, he stands and follows Neville and Ron up the stairs.

The mushrooms don't look like the nice greasy brown ones you get in a fry-up, nor the white ones with little patches of black soil you can pluck from the yard at the Burrow. These are horrid looking, long and brittle.

"Eat them." Neville holds them out but Ron hesitates. "Oh come on. I'm sure you've had worse."

"Rock cakes?" Harry suggests, and thinking of the hard lumps from Hagrid helps Ron remember how to suppress his gag reflex and choke down the mushrooms. They taste like aged parchment.

It comes on slowly. First his skin starts to tingle, but he figures it's probably because he's expecting something to happen so hard that he's making up effects, so he ignores it. But then the greens of the room start to vibrate a bit each shade at a different speed. Ron's caught halfway between feeling nauseous and wanting to giggle, because it's just so bloody silly.

And then things start to get deeper. All of a sudden it's like his brain starts falling to pieces. So many stupid, random, trivial memories start coming to mind. Harry getting socks for Christmas, calling him a git for not realising the threat of merfolk stealing away his mates was a lie, Hermione and Harry stabbing their fork into the same sausage at breakfast because they hadn't looked at the plate. Each memory is like a vision, something he can see right in front of him. He could feel the warmth of the sausage if he just felt out, and there's no reason not to, so he does, and for the briefest of moments he can feel how the plate steams before the memory falls apart, only to be replaced with Harry trying to talk to him through a mouthful of toothpaste.

They're all memories, but they're more than memories. They must be, because he can smell some of them, feel others. And they're all in shades of green, and if they were memories he'd be seeing them in the normal colours.

And then something comes that's completely new. A woman's face, the lightest of mint hair meaning she's probably a blonde, fair grassy skin, dark olive eyes. She begins to flash in between his memories, like an odd, people-shaped bookmark, and the idea makes him laugh so he does, he laughs until he can't remember why he was laughing only that the world is a funny place, when Harry's hair is sticking up in a hundred different directions and nobody's told him. Ron reaches out and tries to flatten it out, and Harry moves away with a muttered "what the fuck" and Ron laughs again when he realises he's touching Real Harry's hair, not Memory Harry.

It goes on for awhile, and then it stops. He's really thirsty, so on the want-do track he's been on for the last however long he says "I'm really thirsty". And he realises he sounds like he's five and begging for a glass of juice, and he blushes. Ron's feeling embarrassment, so he can't be high anymore, because shame wasn't an option. He can see how some people end up experiencing that kind of thing often, it's really quite spectacular.

Harry transfigures a quill into a cup and uses an aguamenti spell to fill it, and lets Ron gulp down a cup of water before pressing for information. But it's obvious they both want to know, Harry if it was worth it to horrify Hermione about drug use, Neville to see if he was right.

"If I understand what Neville said, either Harry performed the spell because of some woman I've never met, or some woman I've never met performed the spell because of Harry."

"See, I knew it would work!"

Neville's beaming is cut short by Harry's pessimism. "It doesn't give me much to placate Hermione with. Are you sure you didn't recognise the woman? There are a lot of Death Eaters, but we have met most of them."

"No. She's white, blond, probably hazel eyes. I've never seen her before. I guess it could be anyone, under Polyjuice."

"No. The mushrooms wouldn't allow for lies like that. That's her true face, whoever it is."

Ron shrugs then stands. His legs are cramped from sitting and tripping for half the day, and he's itchy with dried sweat. It's time to shower. He can have the 'drugs are bad' conversation with Hermione later. Unless Harry does the favour of facing it for him.

Sunday

For what seems like the hundredth time in the last week Ron gets attacked by an owl. This time it wakes him up, at obscene o-clock in the morning. Sure everything looks like a sunrise, as he's seeing in pinks, but it's fairly sure it's actually sunrise. Everybody except Neville is still sleeping.

The owl is small, though not as small as Pig. He doesn't know if it's Hermes or Mercury. Late in the summer the twins had decided it was a brilliant joke to get two identical black owls and name them after the Greek and Roman god of tricksters, thieves and liars. Ron's not sure whose brilliant idea it was to teach the owls to snap at the letter receiver’s fingers if they called the owl the wrong name. It's entirely possible the birds are just persnickety and do it of their own accord.

Either way, he knows like any child growing up in the wizard world that owls with letters don't go away, no matter how much you want them to piss off. So he half sits and calls Mercury to him. The bite draws a bit of blood, and Ron swears. He's damned if he's going to apologise to an owl, so he snatches away the letter and ignores the thing glaring at him.

 _Ron,  
Mum's wanting to see you. It was all could do to stop her from visiting Hogwarts. She's at the shop. Come ASAP.  
G&F_

Ron considers it for the briefest of moments. But it's so bloody early, and when he sticks a foot out of the blanket the air is cold, and how the hell is he supposed to get all the way to Diagon Alley anyway. He shakes his head at the owl and pulls his blankets up over his head. It's the weekend so he's allowed a lie in. He'll figure it out later. After all, ASAP can be late if right away actually isn't possible.

He wakes up hours later to screaming. For a second he's disoriented, he attempts a pillow shield while diving for his wand. It's been awhile since travelling for salvation, but Ron's guard still flies up at a moment's notice. Then the words make it past the primitive fight or flight brain into the logical brain. More than that, he recognises the voice.

It's mum, and she's screaming at him for ignoring Fred and George's letter. He's to run not walk through whatever secret passage he needs to, and arrive at the Three Broomsticks at once. He shudders as the Howler bursts into flames and quickly gets dressed. He keeps his eyes open for Hermione or Harry, if he sees them as he's walking they're coming along, but he knows better than to delay by looking for them.

It's easy enough to find his table. There are only so many bunches of all redheads in a pub at a time, and the pink vision doesn't make them look much different. It's vaguely disconcerting to see George and Fred knocking back gillywater rather than Butterbeer. It throws him off far more to see Charlie, Percy and Ginny there, drinking the normal Butterbeer.

"What is this?" Ron asks as he slides into his seat.

"We want to know what the sodding hell is going on, Ron." Normally Mum would be giving Charlie a disapproving look for the language, not that it ever stops anyone in the family. Today she doesn't bother, and that most of all makes Ron feel uneasy.

"What?"

"Is he still denying things?" Bill queries, sitting in one of the empty chairs. "Oh, and Rosemerta says it's too early to order chips."

"It's eleven! When I was a host, I always made my guests what they most wanted."

"Hey, it's better than Wheezes. The only things to eat there would be Canary Creams and Nosebleed Nougats." Ginny laughs and the twins protest that their line of edible tricks is much larger.

"I've been sitting here for twenty seconds, what'm I supposed to be denying?" Frankly Ron's confused about this whole thing.

"Some of your siblings know things about your wellbeing they haven't seen fit to share. We all care, and—"

"And it's about time we know what's happening to you!" Charlie finishes.

It's time to fish for information, find out what everybody knows or thinks they know. If telling Harry and Hermione was difficult, Ron knows his family will be even more so. If there's anything he can avoid, he will. "I have no fecking clue what you're on about."

"Ginny says there are rumours you tried to kill Madame Pomfrey."

"And Bill got a letter, rushed off, his hand pointing to 'school'."

"George and Fred's shop closed for the first and only time the day Bill got fired from his job at St. Mungo's."

"Healer Barnaby informs me you rescheduled your yearly check up six times already."

It's Percy that sums things up. "Bill and Fred and George know something the rest of us don't, and they won't tell us. Since when are they better than the rest of us?"

Almost all of Ron doesn't want to say a thing. There's a reason he didn't tell them about it at the end of the summer. But Percy sounds so hurt, and the expression continues in Charlie and Ginny, with the subtle differences in their faces. Either way they'll hurt and Ron can't think of anything worse than half his siblings thinking he doesn't love them.

"I didn't tell them anything I didn't tell you. They were there. It's not like I would have told them if they hadn't been there. It wasn't like I chose them, not really."

"Oh thanks," Fred says, but it's obvious he's grateful that Ginny isn't staring at him trying to fathom why he's better.

"When Harry, Hermione and I were searching for Horcruxes, we had to fight a few times." _Masked people on all sides, flashes of light flying, diving to the ground and desperately trying to remember the shielding spell you know you know, you've practiced it a hundred times but you need it and it's not there_ "We'd usually get one or two hits, even though we'd win," _Hermione's bleeding, her arm won't stop bleeding, like Dad's stomach in fifth year, every spell they try isn't working, so she rips a piece of hem off her robe and ties it tightly around her arm to pinch off the veins, and Harry asks why she went and ruined her robe, is she a witch or not, and it's a horrible parody of first year with the Devil's Snare_ "This one time I got hit with a spell. It made me dizzy, and it just kept getting worse. But we couldn't stop searching – we were in the middle of collecting. Hermione thought she knew what potion would make me better. We heard on Lee's station that owls were getting intercepted, so we only risked sending off one, to Wheezes. They made one up, and it managed to get back to me." _tastes horrible, why does every potion always taste so horrible?_

"Good work," Charlie says and claps George on the shoulder.

"Well, we couldn't just let our Ronniekins get sick, could we?"

Ron forges on. "But it didn't work. I just got sicker and sicker." _After having a twenty minute argument with them about coming along, all with his eyes closed, lying on the summer soil so the waves don't surge as powerfully, Harry uses a sticking charm to attach Ron to his arm so they can go on_ "Finally I had to go to the hospital." _Ron protests until Hermione uses a spell to shut him up and Harry and Hermione pack up camp as Ron rests against a tree, trying not to pass out._

After an extended silence Ginny bursts out "You can't just stop there! What happened?"

Bill's 'piss off Ginny' and the bickering that sets off gives Ron enough time to breath slowly and separate himself, so he can tell it like a story instead of remembering it. "Except they knew. The Death Eaters knew, they'd killed a Healer and were Polyjucing as her. They wanted to capture us. They only got me."

"What!"

"I should have known!" Mum says.

Ginny shakes her head violently. "The clock was on Mortal Peril the whole summer, we couldn't have known."

"So I was with the Death Eaters for a while, then Bill came and got me."

"How'd you know where?" Fred asks.

"Hermione and Harry got us too, but we had only started breaking into Malfoy Manor when Bill's Patronus told us he'd found you. It seemed like the wrong time to ask." George adds.

"Its better you don't know. It wasn't a good scene."

Fred and George – and as Ron skims the table, his entire family – open up their mouth to argue, so he steps in. If nothing else, he at least owes Bill the right to avoid questioning. "Bill convinced the man to undo his spell," _God, the blood_ "and I went back to Harry and Hermione to finish destroying Horcruxes. And then we went back to school. And everything was fine until a week ago, when I started seeing in monochrome. And I went to Pomfrey for help, and she told me my scars were the colours I was seeing, and she touched a scar and nearly died. I thought she was dead, and I panicked and wrote Bill. Is that enough of a story?"

"Who hexed you?"

"I've got no idea."

"And Pomfrey doesn't know how to help. What's your next step, St Mungo's?"

"I'm never going back there again."

"Too bloody right!" Bill shouts, and it occurs to Ron for the first time that his older brother was just as affected by what happened that day as he was.

"You're gonna be okay," Ginny assures him.

The second 'too bloody right' is Charlie's. And then Percy leans over to give him a hug, and Mum stands up to demand Rosemerta make chips, and Ron decides it isn't a waste of a Sunday after all.

Monday

After the end of supper, Seamus and Dean come up behind Ron. He doesn't particularly want to talk to them. It can only end in more fighting when he’s asked to pick a side and Ron's got enough stress already. There's a ticking clock in the back of his head, he's got a bit more than three weeks to figure out what's wrong with him before he has to drop out of school and run from all authorities. He's not wasting his time worrying about misdirected love.

Every Gryffindor, if not every student in the school, knows of the fight Seamus, Dean and Lavender had that morning. Since it was in Ancient Runes, Ron hadn't witnessed it, but according to the rumours, a turned over rune meaning joy had somehow degenerated into the three screaming 'whore' and 'slag' at each other. At lunch none of them had shown up and just now Seamus was sitting with Neville, Lavender and Parvati, and Dean with a few Ravenclaw artists.

"What?" he asks cautiously. If there's one word about his opinion he'll just walk away with Hermione and Harry. Well, maybe just with Harry since Hermione will probably want to give her advice. Surely she's read just as many books about relationships as she's read about anything else, and once Hermione reads something she yearns for the chance to share her knowledge.

"We've been looking into spells. We've got a bit of a list worked up. Some Pomfrey might have tried already but—"

"Pomfrey hasn't tried anything. And I doubt she will." It's not often that Harry's voice is filled scorn, but hearing it makes Ron's heart warm a bit.

"Ruddy coward. So you made her pass out. Big deal, who hasn't passed out at Hogwarts half a dozen times?" Seamus' voice is full of contempt too. Ron wouldn't classify being scared for your life cowardly, but Gryffindors don't take well to whatever their personal view of cowardice is.

"Most people, idiot. If you didn't bloody persist in touching the wrong things and combining the wrong things, my god, it's a wonder you aren't fucking _dead_!" Dean snaps.

"Well wouldn't it make things easier for you if I was? Maybe you should just—"

"You said you had a few charm ideas for Ron?" Hermione interrupts.

"Right," he says, back onto business. "We've got a bunch, so if you'd come with us to the Room of Requirement we could try them?"

Ron looks to Harry and Hermione. He'd trust them a bit more with this. It's not that he thinks Dean and Seamus incapable at Charms, that they're both in NEWTs Charms proves they must have some skill. It's just he's owed his survival to Hermione and Harry more than once – hell, more than a dozen times – and it seems odd to be going somewhere else for help.

But they don't say anything, and have suddenly acquired perfect poker faces. Meanwhile Seamus and Dean are standing by expectantly, and the air rings with an unsaid air of _what are you waiting for_? So Ron shrugs and jerks his head towards the Great Hall entrance.

It's a quiet walk to the seventh floor, which tells Ron a few things. Seamus is obviously extremely uncomfortable, for he has no idea how to remain silent at the most important of times. He was the first student in years to absentmindedly start talking during OWLs, about why question seven was stupid, and phrased poorly before Flitwick had rushed over and told him he wasn't allowed to speak. For Seamus Finnegan to be mute, it takes a disaster of epic proportions. Seamus is emotional often, but rarely emotional enough to stop talking. And normally when Seamus is upset, Dean jumps in immediately. Sometimes it's a conversation, sometimes it's a rude gesture, usually it's a joke, but there's always something. It's as natural as breathing, Dean provides the emotional equilibrium for Seamus, and Seamus provides the inspiration for passion and movement. For him to not be trying his best to make Seamus feel comfortable just seems wrong.

They reach the corridor, and Ron stays back. After all, he has no idea what they need. Both Dean and Seamus take a step forward, than stop and look at each other. Ron watches as they look at each other, neither wanting to be the first to break.

But finally Seamus speaks. Neither looks satisfied, and Ron doesn't know the composition of their arguments, he's not sure who won at Seamus speaking. "I'll do it. Unless you don't trust me?"

"I don't trust you. But you can call the room."

"If you fecking well don't trust me, then you should be doing this your bloody self, shouldn't you be?"

"Maybe I'll just call your girlfriend and she can help you!"

"As if I'd want your slag girlfriend to help me with anything!"

"Would both of you shut it? Seamus will open the door, and if this is how it's going to be, I don't want help from either of you. I'd rather be sodding blind!"

They both stare at him, almost like they forgot he was there. Dean doesn't retreat, but Seamus takes a few steps forward and strides back and forth until the door appears.

The room is comfortable, the perfect sort of room for writing an essay. The dim lights make today's beige world a tapioca delight, but it's bright enough to see clearly. The floor is carpeted, and there are oversized pillows scattered all over it. There three armchairs and a table with a pitcher of water. Dean plops in one, Seamus in another, so Ron takes the third.

"The first we thought we should try is a 20x20 spell."

"Pomfrey said she refused to take one off me. It was strange; I don't think I've ever gotten that spell."

"Maybe not, your mum would have found a Mediwitch or wizard to cast it on you at a young age if you'd needed it. But we thought, since it perfects vision it was worth a try." Seamus waves his wand and mutters something, and for a brief moment Ron's eyesight waivers before settling back into place.

"Anything?"

"It was weird. Like shutters opening than closing straight away."

"That's what happens when you perform it on someone that already has perfect vision. It was a whim. We've got other, better ideas," Dean assures him.

For the next half hour, Seamus and Dean work through what seems like every possible ocular spell. Ron doesn't begrudge the help, just sits cross legged on the couch, fooling with the hole in his sock. Everything stays beige, but they continue without seeming to get hopeless.

Oddly enough, it's Ron that bursts first. The few times he's had fights with his friends, it was he and Harry against Hermione, or he and Harry fighting with Hermione in the middle. He's never before had the opportunity to realise how bloody aggravating it is to see two people that miss each other so much they can't even look at each other. He does have plenty of experience knowing that Weasleys can't handle much aggravation.

"Stop it! Both of you."

"Huh?"

"We haven't argued in front of you," Dean says.

"You shouldn't be arguing at all. It's bloody stupid. Lavender got with me to piss you two off, you dated my sister to piss them off, and you fucked around with Anthony Goldstein. Instead of screwing around with others to piss each other off, you should screw each other. How hard a concept is that?"

"Friends with benefits? I don't think that would work, it's not just about the getting off." Dean's misinterpretation makes Ron want to strangle him.

"Four fucking years of flirting with each other and you think the entire bloody school doesn't know it's more than sex? The three of you should date each other."

"What?"

"How hard a concept is it? It's impossible to pick sides and frankly I wouldn't wish Lav-Lav on my worst enemy—"

"Hey!" they both shouted.

"And it's obvious you two need a girl to round things out, so just stop the feinting and fucking about and do it. Do you have any more spells to try?"

Seamus looks at his list and shakes his head, looking a bit shell-shocked.

"Then I'm going to the dorm. Just think about things, instead of blowing up at each other because you can't blow each other." Ron storms out the Room of Requirement, not sure why he's so angry. It's not like he has a personal stake in whether or not Seamus and Dean and Lavender figure out how to be happy. It just seems like such a waste. People that love each other should act on it.

Tuesday

Ron wakes to Harry's hand pressing on his stomach. After Pomfrey he'd told Harry that he wasn't allowed to wake him up anymore. Even though he slept in long sleeved shirts, who knew if the strength of his problem might change until the scars could hurt through fabric? If they did, he would have to leave Hogwarts, but that was a lesser concern compared to possibly hurting Harry.

Harry, the Boy Who Had A Death Wish refused to listen, and part of Ron is glad. Waking up with a friend is better than waking up with a clock. He grunts at Harry, who steps back so Ron can get up. He briefly delays exiting the toasty blankets by stretching and arching his back. He can't stall long or Harry will move to harsher methods, but every second counts.

As he's about to throw them off, he hears Neville say "Lavender? Why are you in... Oh. Do you want me to pass you your shirt?"

"I'll get it, thanks Nev," is Dean's response. He can practically hear Neville's blush and he starts to snicker. It's not that he has a desperate urge to see Lavender shirtless, he's seen it before and it's never seemed too amazing. He just wants proof that both Lavender and Seamus are in Dean's bed, proof that ranting is a good thing. So he scoots to the side of his bed, blanket curled around his front, and opens the curtains while he opens his eyes.

He can't see anything. Ron blinks and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, still nothing. He scrunches his eyes tightly closed and counts to ten before opening them again, still nothing. Everything is pitch black. There are no shades of colours, there's nothing. He's blind!

"Harry," in his head he's prepared a shout to get his friend's attention, it comes out as a pitiful whimper.

"Ron?"

"Harry!" he wants to explain, but his breath is quickening, and he can't spare the air to talk.

"Stop hyperventilating," Harry orders, tone immediately powerful. Ron would like nothing more than to follow orders, but his terror won't let him.

"Ron, you need to stop." He knows. Hyperventilating is bad for anyone, but far worse for him. If he hyperventilates he's going to get dizzy, and getting dizzy will send him hurtling through memory until he's in the hands of those masked bastards.

"What's wrong with Ron?" Seamus' voice is coming from the same direction as Dean's, and just a minute ago Ron would have been proud to have provoked that. But now nothing matters, because he's blind and how the hell is he going to get through his life without being able to see?

"Sod off, all of you. Go to class and tell them we're not coming. If you see Hermione tell her she needs to start researching." The tiny part of Ron that isn't spiralling out of control finds the rapid shuffling sounds that come next a bit amazing; they've all followed Harry's demand.

"Ron, I'm gonna crawl onto the bed." Oh fuck, it's like being right back to being deadly dizzy hunting for Horcruxes, Harry and Hermione warning him before they came close so he could prepare himself to open his eyes without falling over. Except this time he can't open his eyes.

"No," he whimpers, not ready to go back.

"I'm going to. It'll help." And Harry does, Ron can feel the shake of the mattress. He tugs on Ron's clothed arms and Ron pulls away automatically but Harry's not taking no for an answer so Ron finally lets Harry tug him down onto the bed. Harry's elbow is hooked into his, and he thinks the thing that's tickling his ear is Harry's hair, but he's not sure and it's not like he can look.

"Ron. I'm gonna breathe, and you're gonna breathe, and we'll both just be breathing. Alright?" Ron doesn't answer, so he answers himself. "Right."

Ron breathes until he feels calm enough that he feels like he's sleeping, until he blinks and open eyes looks no different than closed eyes. That starts the panic up again, and Harry elbows him in the ribs and he starts following Harry's rhythm again. The cycle happens several more times, and who's to say it wouldn't have happened again had Ron not heard the door open. He figures it's Hermione, either ignoring Harry's instructions, or hopefully with an answer to his vision problems.

"You look nice." The voice is the vocal equivalent of sheer curtains rustling in the wind, and Ron immediately places it as Luna. "More people should be so friendly."

"Thanks, I guess. But why are you up here?" Harry asks for the both of them.

"Ginny said Ron was seeing colours."

"Did she tell everybody?"

"I don't think she did. It would take a long time to talk to everybody at Hogwarts." As always, Luna completely misses the point, and Ron still sometimes questions whether or not she does it on purpose. "It sounds pretty. But she says you don't like it, and it's difficult to see pretty things when you're upset. So I'll help you."

Ron is hesitant to accept any cure Luna has to offer, and as he's trying to figure out a way to say that that's not completely offensive, Harry shouts "What the fuck are those?"

"They're Jamiun Ourns. They're the reason rainbows fade. You can't really find gold at the end of the rainbow; really what is there are these. They eat colour, the more mystic the better it tastes. Crackers or cake, you know."

Ron would think that she's completely barmy, imagining them just the same as the Crumple Horned Snorkacks, except that Harry is tensed up beside him.

"Roll up your sleeves."

"What?"

"So they can eat the colours of your scars." It's as close to impatient as Ron had ever heard from Luna, and at this point there's nothing to lose. He's blind and he's three weeks from being involuntarily committed to the institution that let him nearly get tortured to death, why not let Luna mess around with semi-imaginary animals?

Sleeves pushed up he scoots away from Harry so the dangerous scars can't touch him. He hears Luna's footsteps coming closer and grits his eyes closed, not that it matters. Something warm and slimy drops onto his arm, it feels like a slug, or a massive wet flobberworm. It is gross, but manageable.

And then the slug bites, and his arm starts to pulse. And before he can tell her it was a bad idea, and to take her mental colour eating worms and shove them up her arse Luna drops two more on his left arm.

"No," he groans. His arms are throbbing, it's horrible. Two drop onto his right arm and their evil teeth start gnawing into him.

"Ron, it's working! They were clear, they're starting to turn black. Can you see better yet?"

"No," he groans again, this time in answer.

"You will. You'll be fine." It's only the confidence Harry has that keeps Ron from shoving the critters off his arms. In fact, it's always been Harry's confidence that gets Ron through impossible situations. It hits him like a smack in the face how badly he needs Harry.

"Oh," the single syllable interrupts Ron's burgeoning self-realisation.

"Oh what?"

"They're dying. Its okay, I've got more."

"They probably just overate. Your arms are still lined with black, they just ate too much. It's okay Ron, Luna has a whole bucket of them."

Harry's confident, he's trying to save him for the hundredth time and the words just slide out of Ron's mouth. "I love you."

"Ron, the Jammy whatevers are dying, you're not dying."

"This isn't a panicked dying 'I want to have nice final thoughts' idea. If anything it's a bedside confession. You don't hear me saying it to Loony Lovegood, do you?"

"Ron, you don't even shag blokes."

"I don't shag anyone!" Ron never thought he'd be proclaiming his virgin status in front of other people, but Luna's too barmy to ever have sex, and Harry has to know.

"You don't like blokes. You would have told me. You don't have to like me to always be my best mate. I think the stress of the last two weeks is getting to you."

"If I didn't have slugs eating my arms I'd snog you, you idiot. You can't tell me how I feel." Honestly.

"Can we not have this conversation in front of Luna?"

"Oh, I don't mind," she says airily, a perfect counterpoint to the rage Harry's ignorance is causing.

"Fine. Sod off then. Go to class."

"Fine." The bed shakes and a moment later the door slams. Ron wishes he could be happy about winning, but it was a fake victory. Making Harry leave him is pretty much the opposite of what he wanted.

 

Wednesday

When Ron wakes in the middle of the night with a full bladder the room has shadows. He can hardly ever remember feeling more grateful. Maybe when Bill killed the Death Eaters holding him, or when he found out his dad wasn't going to bleed to death, his sense of owing everything to an uncontrollable source was higher. But realising he's got his sight back, however flawed, definitely fits in the top three.

He has time to think while he's pissing, and by the time he's tucking himself in and washing his hands he's got a plan. It's heavy on instinct, light on forethought. The chess champion inside him is wincing, but it's better than yesterday's no-thought-at-all.

He tiptoes across the dorm, which is almost supernaturally quiet. Neville's curtains are open, as are Harry's. Seamus' and Dean's are both closed, which stops no one in the room from knowing there are three people in one bed. Hell, probably the girls’ dorm knows it too. That kind of knowledge spreads fast.

He grabs his wand from his pillow and Shrinks his loose pyjama top a bit. The last thing he wants is his sleeves pulling up without him noticing. Once Ron's satisfied everything is safe, he crosses back to Harry's open bed. He pulls back the blanket, not enough to uncover Harry but just enough to give him room to lie down. Then he sneaks a hand under the blanket to cup Harry's dick while he nestles against Harry and blows in his ear.

It takes a minute before Harry begins to wake up, but when he does his eyes snap open and the process is in all much faster than when he wakes Ron up. Or maybe it's just due to the stimulus, maybe if Ron woke up with a hand on his cock and a mouth close to his ear he'd snap to attention too.

"What the hell?"

"I'm glad you're awake. I want to snog."

"I told you, you don't have to do this to make sure we're mates forever."

"And I told you, you great bloody idiot, that I want to snog. So unless you want to go brush your teeth first..."

When Harry rolls to his side and puts his open lips on Ron's closed ones and licks them, Ron knows Harry's doing it just to call his bluff. But there's nothing to call, and Ron opens his mouth to let Harry in. As far as first kisses go, it's not nearly as messy as with Lavender, or meaningless as a truth or dare snog with Colin, or awkward as with Hermione.

Harry's mouth tastes good, and Ron decides middle of the night snogging is the best kind. That way Harry doesn't taste like toothpaste, or dinner or breakfast, or Drooble's gum, or Honeydukes chocolate. Harry tastes entirely of himself, and Ron's got the sudden urge to see if his skin tastes any different. He pulls away, and for a second he thinks he sees a flash of triumph on Harry's face in the moonlight, but then his face is buried in Harry's neck so he can lick the hollow of his throat and facial expressions don't matter.

His neck tastes just as good, albeit a bit drier than his mouth. Ron wants to lick every inch of Harry's skin, but as he shoves off Harry's blankets to have more room to play he sees he's wearing a button down night shirt. Ron hasn't got anywhere near the patience for that, so he crawls on top of Harry and continues laving his neck. Harry's skin is starting to goose-bump, better yet he's starting to get hard. The reaction thrills him. He burbles a laugh against Harry's throat before grinding his cock against Harry's.

Ron knows he's won the moment Harry's hips arch up to meet his pressing down. But really, it's a win win situation. Harry squirms as Ron grinds, his teeth latching onto his neck as his lips start to suction. Ron never really liked Lavender's love-bites, but somehow the idea of Harry giving him love-bites doesn't raise the same issues.

Eventually though he figures he owes it to Harry to give him one back. Only the neck is a bit predictable, isn't it? So he rises onto all fours and crawls backwards a few feet before settling again. Completely bypassing the difficult buttons, he's now on the bottoms that do up with a drawstring. One quick pull of ribbon makes them loose enough to shove down. And as it turns out, Harry's thigh tastes just as good as his mouth and neck.

It's when he shifts over and licks a line down Harry's cock that Harry starts to freak out. "Don't you think you're going a bit fast?"

Ron, who's horny and a teenaged boy and has made all his plans while standing in front of the loo, plans which included fucking before the night is over, thinks nothing of the kind. "Fuck fast," he mutters and then sinks his mouth over the head of the brunet's cock. Judging by the quick up thrust of hips, Harry isn't freaking out anymore.

Still, every time Harry goes in too deep he starts to feel like he's going to puke, and while blowjobs are clearly a practice until perfect sort of thing, he doesn't want to practice right now. Ron wants something perfect the first time, something that they can remember as having been amazing. He wants something he can use as evidence for how fantastic this could be if Harry freaks out again in the morning.

The thing about being the youngest brother is by the time you're old enough to care about sex, you've already been given enough advice to fill a book, most of it contradictory: Romance a girl, ignore her so she comes to you. Shagging is the most important part of a date, any bird that gives it up on the first date has slept with a hundred people and what sort of diseases did all those blokes have? Kissing with teeth is sexy and wild, nobody likes to be bitten.

Even though as far as he knows none of his brothers has slept with a guy, they were all open minded enough to pass along information to the younger ones just in case. Ron knows the mechanics of sex with blokes, and while he wavered back and forth between making faces and blushing for some of the more in depth advice at the time, he's happy for it now.

For example, he knows that while the bottom gets the best sensations, they also get the initial burst of pain, so that role will be his until Harry stops being so hesitant about the whole relationship idea. He knows about the importance of patience, about fingering, about rimming. And what seems most vital right now; remembering the right lubrication spell. There are a few different ones, for squeaky door hinges, for women, for men, all separated by a different vowel on the end.

Ron mentally crosses his fingers and says the one he thinks is right. A pool of thin liquid forms in his hand, and he's not positive it's the one meant for men, but it doesn't smell like door oil so he considers it good enough. He straddles Harry's pelvis and stretches his wet hand up to curl his fingers in Harry's. Once they're slick enough Ron slides his hand to Harry's wrist and rises up until he can guide Harry to his arse.

The tip of Harry's finger presses into him, and as his body gives in to the inevitability Ron looks down at his now lover and smiles. It feels a bit strange, but nothing compared to how some of the charms or potions or pranks of his brothers feel. And this is so much more important, he's far more willing to put up with strangeness.

Two more fingers slide in, and all of a sudden he can really feel them, and this is so much more concrete than just seconds ago. Harry is getting him ready so they can _fuck_. The idea seems almost impossible, but he wants it so much. Ron lowers himself so Harry's fingers are in deep. Then he curls them, like he's done this before and knows what to look for. Ron holds his breath as he waits for the imminent jealousy to rear its ugly head. It doesn't, and he exhales and bends forward nimbly so he can kiss his lover. Who cares if Harry's fucked someone before, he's his now, and that's all that matters.

It quickly becomes clear that Harry's going to finger him until he comes, and that's going to be soon if Ron doesn't do something about it. As much as the idea thrills him, he sets it aside with the 'practice until perfect' idea and rises until he's off Harry's fingers.

Ron says the spell needed for disease free passion, again thankful to blunt conversations with older brothers. Harry's face changes and his slippery hands rest on Ron's thighs. "Are you serious?"

Ron doesn't think saying 'no, I'm Ron' would go over very well, so he doesn't say anything at all. Take that, Hermione and her teaspoons and defamations to his intelligence. Instead he scoots back inches and takes Harry's cock in hand. The way it feels rubbing against his hole is maddening.

"Ron, you can't—"

"We will," he replies, because with Harry he can do anything.

For a moment he thinks it's not going to happen, Harry's not going to fit. Harry's biting his lip, and Ron can tell he wants to say stop, and that more than anything is what makes him press on. Pain before pleasure, his brothers said, and there's never been anything important his brothers have lied about.

And they're right. After minutes that are more about stubbornness than anything else, Ron's spine stops feeling like it's going to burst into flame, his legs stop shaking with tension. His body relaxes, and Harry must feel it because he takes that moment to start rocking up. And thank Merlin that Harry doesn't expect dirty talk or anything special because all Ron can think is _Harry's fucking me, Harry's fucking me, Harry's fucking me_ on repeat.

It doesn't surprise him that it takes no time at all to come. He's been hard since pulling his bottoms up in the loo. He throws his head back, neck arching as he splatters all over Harry's chest. It's the sound of Harry hissing that draws his head forward. The mind blown expression of Harry looking at the come on his torso is almost enough to make Ron hard again. But even he doesn't have a refractory period that short, and seeing Harry come must be just as good.

He clenches down on Harry's cock and that's the end of it, Harry's fingers squeeze his thighs and a rush of heat shoots into Ron. His shiver of passion is interrupted by his laugh at seeing Harry's orgasm face; the man is cross-eyed.

Ron feels oddly reluctant to get off Harry. You can only have one first time, and Ron wants nothing more than to prolong it. But as the intoxication of orgasm leaves him, he starts to get sleepy. And judging by the way the sun is rising and making the room look like a place fit for royalty (purple, today is shades of purple) he's only got a few hours before classes. He lets Harry use his bottoms to wipe the come off the both of them. Normally that would be awkward to explain in the morning, but he has a feeling the curtained bed of Seamus, Dean, and Lavender won't comment, and Neville will almost certainly do his best to ignore everything he sees before he runs off to the greenhouses.

Almost 24 hours ago he was blind and terrified, now he's sated and snuggled against Harry. The difference a day can make is unbelievable.

 

Thursday

Ron's beginning to get the distinct feeling Harry has a problem with intimacy. He can't blame him for the disaster that was Cho, and he doesn't want to know anything about his short-lived relationship with Ginny and why it failed, but what they've got should be perfect. And yet Harry hasn't looked at him the whole morning.

The horrible denial that Ron thought might happen hadn't, they woke up to the sounds of Lavender asking where her shirt was, and Ron thinks the three of them should really learn to make one big pile of clothes before tumbling into bed together so they're not always struggling the next morning.

When the trio had turned to see Harry and Ron half naked in the same bed, Seamus had demanded a high five of all things for work well done. Harry hadn't scrambled out of bed with a terrible excuse. Instead he'd started to bicker with Seamus about not touching hands that he didn't know where they'd been, and Seamus said he could say the same thing back, and Ron was absolutely fine with listening to them argue, it was a normal event.

Nor had Harry chalked it up to a one time accident. After classes Harry had gone out to play with his Snitch for a few hours, and when he'd come back in, he accosted Ron in the dorm, sweaty and stinking and so fucking hot. Ron had ended up getting his first blowjob in the showers, pouring water making it hard to watch Harry's bobbing head, but unable to look away.

But this morning Ron stuck out his hand at breakfast, expecting Harry to link fingers, an expectation that was utterly denied. And in Transfigurations he'd leaned in for a kiss, only to have Harry flinch away.

So when Hermione tells him to come with her to Moaning Myrtle's loo because she has a potion nearly ready, he tells her he'll be there soon and then follows Harry out of Charms.

"We're going to the dorm."

"I just need to get a book from Pince then—"

"No. We're going to the dorm now." Harry looks at him for a moment, than shrugs and takes a different turn.

Ron waits until Harry's sitting on his bed, blankets an ash grey against the light grey of his skin, before sitting opposite him. The thick git asks "What is it?"

"Just a question." He pauses, waits to make sure Harry's full attention is on him. "What the hell?"

"Er?"

"So, we're shagging but not looking at each other outside the dorm room? Is there some reason? I don't want to be a girl about this, but are you ashamed? Maybe you want to go back to the other Weasley?"

"Don't be daft. Ginny wasn't, er, she's not..." It's almost fun watching Harry search for words to describe why Ginny was a bad girlfriend without offending her older brother. If it was at any other time, Ron might be smirking. But this is important. This is the sort of conversation that will set the standard of their relationship. He can't afford to start snickering. "I want you. Okay?"

"Then why were you ignoring me?"

"Because we haven't told Hermione yet, and even though you didn't fit with her, doesn't mean she didn't fit with you."

Ron thinks about that for a moment. It was she that had said it wasn't going to work, but there's a high probability she'd done that for his sake.

"I just think we should tell her we're shagging before we demonstrate it in front of her." Harry shrugs and Ron's heart soars. There's nothing wrong, Harry's not regretting anything, or ashamed of being queer in public. He just doesn't want to upset Hermione, when chances are Hermione's figured it out months before they had.

"Right. I'm off then, she's got a few ideas for this," he gestures to his eyes, "and I'll talk to her about it."

"Want me to come?"

"No, don't have to. I'll be fine. If anyone's got a solution, she does. I'll come back here in an hour and you'll be all colours, instead of looking like an elephant." Ron smiles and in response Harry lifts his arm to his face and waves it like a trunk while trumpeting like an elephant.

Once he's inside the loo Hermione holds out a flask. "Drink this."

"What is it?" Ron takes out the stopper and sniffs it. Surprisingly good, considering the average taste of potions.

"It might help with your vision. Probably not, Seamus and Dean were remarkably thorough, but it can't hurt."

It's got large bits of orange peel. They're hard to swallow, but it's better than Pepperup or anything else Ron's had recently.

"If it doesn't happen in the next minute it's not going to." Hermione warns. Ron starts counting seconds in his head. At sixty-five he shakes his head.

"Sorry. I thought it might work."

"It's okay. I've almost got used to seeing in monotone. If it weren't for my arms I wouldn't really care."

"We'll figure something out before the end of the month." Her voice is steel determination, and Ron can almost believe she will.

"Spit in this, would you?" Hermione holds out a cauldron. Ron eyes it warily before gathering his saliva and spitting. She places it on the sink and starts stirring it slowly, counter clockwise.

After twenty stirs she uses an eyedropper to collect 30 drops in a small cup. "Drink this too."

"I just spat in it."

"It needed your essence. I thought spit would be better than drinking your toenails or hair. So shut up and drink it."

"What will it do?"

"Neville helped you figure out who did this to you, and why. I found this potion in a book made for the Moodys of the world, those paranoid enough to need to know everything about everyone else. How to create your own Sneakascope, how to make and counteract Veritaserum. This potion gives you the location of anyone that's performed a spell against you. A drop for each day, I figure she must have done it within the month since spells don't work very well on time delay. Once we know where she is we can find her, and we can make her reverse it." With the narrowing of her eyes Ron can't help but remember Hermione punching Malfoy, and leading Umbridge to the centaurs. She's got a streak of cruel certainty, and Ron doesn't have a doubt that if they do find her, they can make her talk.

He drinks the bitter fluid and suddenly he's seeing himself in the loo like he's looking through a mirror, though Hermione's nowhere to be seen. A quick scene change to Seamus and Dean in the library, tickling a person sized hole in the scene, which must be Lavender. McGonagall in her classroom, the twins at their shop.

And then Ron sees the woman. But it doesn't make any sense, because Ron's looking at himself in the mirror again, only his face is flashing back and forth between his own features and hers. Kind of like those 'holographic stickers' Ginny has plastered all over her dresser at the Burrow from a childhood penpal.

And then he's back in the loo, Hermione looking at him eagerly. "Where is she? We'll leave tonight, I'm sure the professors will understand when McGonagall talks to them."

"I'm not sure."

"It didn't work? But I followed the instructions exactly. I haven't botched a potion in years!"

"No, it showed me Seamus and Dean and Fred and George. But her, I'm not sure. It looked like she was living in my face. I don't really—"

"Oh god."

"What?" Ron can't remember the last time Hermione was so distressed. Not fake distressed, like when he and Harry need too much help with an essay and she thinks they're not learning anything. Real distressed, like after Sirius' death.

"Ron, you're possessed."

"I'm what?"

"The potion worked. She's living under your skin because she's part of you. You're possessed. You've probably been the whole time. Pomfrey even told us, we just didn't listen!"

"What are you talking about?" There's no way he's possessed.

"Thoughts leave the deepest scars. When the brains attacked you, the woman the brain belonged to, she sunk into you. Now, I have no idea how she hexed you from beneath your skin, unless she made you do it and you can't remember it. But we can work with this."

"I'm possessed?"

"Ron, we can work with this. There have to be books about possession. I'll find answers."

"What is it with Weasleys and becoming possessed?" he asks lightly, trying to throw off the horror of the idea.

"You do not have Tom Riddle in your head. Ginny killed animals and nearly died. You haven't done anything in the last year and a half, except this one spell, against yourself. You haven't hurt anyone. Please believe me Ron; it is going to be okay. I'm going to go back to the library, you go relax with Harry."

"We're fucking, you know."

"Pardon?"

As far as coming out goes, it's just about the most tactless ways he can think of. But Harry wants her to know, and he's too distracted to think of a nicer way. Maybe Harry was right in saying he should have come. Too late now. "Harry and I are shagging. Twice already. It'll probably be more, soon."

"Well... That explains rather a lot, actually. I'll go to the library and find books to help you, you go and have fun with him, I suppose."

"That's it?" He's a bit numb to it right now, but later he'll probably care more about her reaction. When he can think straight he'll want more to analyse.

"Ron, it was never going to be me and you. So at least it's someone else I like. Better Harry than Lavender again."

"Lavender is shagging Dean and Seamus."

"That much I did know. Goodnight, Ron. I'll see you later." Ron takes her advice and leaves. He's going to need Harry when the numbness wears off and his mind is pure horror again.

Friday

Ron watches the crackling indigo fire and tries to come up with a master strategy for the future. As much as he tries to remain calm, his thoughts circle around one thing; he's essentially screwed.

Abruptly he turns to his side and says in a heartfelt tone, "Now I know how you felt. I'm sorry."

Anyone else would have to think about it for a moment to understand which moment of shared history Ron was talking about. Harry knows immediately. "It sucks. Wouldn't wish it on Malfoy, never mind you. So I'm sorry too."

"Now I _have_ to leave Hogwarts."

"Why? I've had someone in my brain since I was a one year old, I'm here."

"Voldemort never took you over."

"Midnight visit to the Ministry remind you of anything?" Harry's got a deep eyebrow raised against lighter skin, but Ron's not letting him win that easily.

"He confused and tricked you with nightmares. She was able to make me cast a spell on myself. What happens if next time I cast one on Ginny, or Hermione? Or you? I can't stay here if she's here."

"No, Ron. I refuse to let some old bat we don't even know the name of chase you off! That's bollocks and you know it."

"And I refuse to kill you because some brain amputated Death Eater decides they want their shot."

"You had this for the whole of sixth year and she didn't do anything. Why would she now?"

"I don't bloody know. But I'm not giving it a chance."

"So what, you're just going to run away and never see anyone you care about again?" Harry cuts to the chase, and Ron realises he's right. It's not just Hogwarts, he can hurt his loved ones just as easily at The Burrow or The Leaky. He'll have to go far away to keep everyone safe. That or –

"Maybe I can go live in a muggle city. You can visit me. If I don't have magic anymore I can't hurt you."

"You won't hurt me now!" Harry shouts, attracting the attention of the others in the common room. Ron can see this conversation is just going to go in circles, and soon their mates are going to be stepping in to see what the problem is. He hasn't told anybody except Harry, not wanting them to look at him differently. But Harry won't stop trying to persuade him, and Ron's not going to be talked out of it.

That's when they – and the whole common room, really – get a break. The Fat Lady portrait swings open and Hermione rushes over to them. "Ron, I've got it. I know how to make her leave you!"

The volume of her voice as she says it halfway across the room makes people stare, and Ron knows Seamus is going to ask who 'her' is later. But Ron can hardly make himself care. If Hermione has a plan than he's saved. Hermione has a superb track record with plans.

"Come with me to your room. Both of you," she adds on hastily as Harry opens his mouth to protest being left out. There's nothing to do but to follow.

"You're going to make a contract with her," Hermione explains as they all settle on Harry's bed. "I'm going to hex you and when you calm enough that you can contact her, you bring up terms. You have to fulfil one request of hers, and she yours. Yours will obviously be making her leave your head. Once you do what she wants she'll be forced to leave, and you'll be entirely your own again."

Harry's about to ask a dozen questions, Ron can tell. And no doubt Hermione will be able to answer them all, but Ron doesn't have the time for that. He just wants the lady out of his mind. And maybe he can make a stipulation about seeing in colour, though comparatively to the possession, seeing all in indigo isn't too bad.

"Just cast the hex."

"Right. Once I do, you'll need to fall into a meditative state to reach her. I know you have no idea what I mean, so just breathe slowly like Harry used to help you with, and it'll come naturally." Ron shrugs agreement and she says the hex. It doesn't feel like anything's happened, but it's not the first time he's had to just trust them. He begins to breathe slowly, and his heart tingles a bit as he hears Harry enter into the same rhythm automatically. They've always done this together, since the first days of illness on the quest.

He doesn't notice when his eyes fall closed, doesn't notice when he stops noticing the subtle pressure of the underside of his legs against the bed. He does notice when he changes from the black blankness of closed eyes to a bare indigo room with a tall woman beside him.

"Hello. I was wondering how long it would take you to get here."

Somehow, with that single sentence, Ron can tell she means him no harm. It's not her tone, or her expression, or anything else understandable in the five senses. He just _knows_. So instead of beginning the bartering Hermione instructed him to, he asks "This is where you stay?"

"Usually. Sometimes, if you dream, I will watch. That's a different place."

"My mates have showed me that you've cursed me. Why?" Because though it's obvious she didn't do it to hurt him, he still doesn't know why she did do this.

"It's not a curse. It was the best way I had to help you."

"What?"

"You were following a single path without ever realising where you'd stepped. No person should be forced into choicelessness, even without understanding that's what's occurred. Before death, I was an Unspeakable. I had a million choices. Sometimes every minute could lead me to a new world. When I entered you I was content to merely watch. But I couldn't let you lose your freedom."

"So you cursed me to see colours because you thought it would change my life? It will. I'm going to be forced to leave Hogwarts." The bitterness is clear in his tone, there's no masking in this dark room.

"The colour is a side affect. You will stop seeing single colours, and your scars will stop affecting others, as soon as the primary condition of the spell has been fulfilled."

"And what's that? What do I have to do?"

"The only time I have ever used your body was to place a spell on you. It required blood, and I knew you must not notice, so I followed one of the lines my brain created. I was unaware of how the spell would react to scar tissue. I'm sorry for that."

"What do I have to do?" It's clear she's used to being inside this room – she has more skills to avoid honesty than he does.

"The spell uses your own body and skills to locate your destined one. It's an eons old spell. Some illustrate until it brings an author into their life, some speak a different language fluently each day until they travel to the country that their loved one is in."

"And some belch until they fall in love with a cook. What do I have to do, to not see colours and make people pass out with my arms?"

"I have attempted amends for that. She was trying to abate the new lines of destiny, so she was stopped. The effect will stop as soon as the spell is completed. Your destined one must tell you of their desire. That they love you, or that they want to get married. When the spell is satisfied you're on the right course, it will finish."

Ron blinks, thinking he understands her. His eyes open to Harry and Hermione, both watching him anxiously.

"What do we do so she sods off?"

"I think she's going to stay. I don't really mind. She's nicer when you understand her motives."

"Er, that's good. I suppose?" Hermione queried anxiously.

"Ron, you can't just let her mess with your vision and touch because she's nice! Do you really want to have to have sex with a t-shirt on for the rest of your life?"

"Too much information!" Hermione groans, and Ron laughs. For the moment, everything is okay. And he's pretty sure he knows how to fix the future too.

 

Saturday

As it turns out, waking up at the time you want on Saturday morning is even better when you have a warmth down your entire side that means your lover hasn't made it out of the room either. Ron grins, though he's sure Harry isn't awake to see it, they had a late night last night. Sleep deprivation caused by sex is somehow less exhausting than all the other reasons for it.

Harry had sleepily claimed there was nothing better than a good night fuck, though Ron suspects a morning handjob might beat it out - pun totally intended, he's a seventeen year old boy for shitsakes -and wants to try. Waking Harry up by getting him hard sounds like a great start to the day.

His grin falters when he reaches for the lubrication and can't find it. Last night Seamus had walked nude across the small gap between the beds, offering it with a comment about it being far better than the magical variation. While Ron isn't sure about the difference in quality, he does know that it smells like blueberries, and that's kind of awesome. The last thing he wants is for the tube to have exploded under the weight of Harry's sleeping head. Not to mention how badly the pillows will stain.

He opens his eyes a crack to look for it, and his grin disappears completely. Everything is white. Not turning everything into shades like all the other colours; he sees pure white like he's been buried under a mountain of snow. It hurts his eyes, how bright everything is.

His only plan is to roll over away from the window and shut his eyes. There's nothing else he can do, he's had the Unspeakable woman's curse for long enough to know each colour will last a day.

"Ron?" Harry murmurs. Bugger, his movements have woken Harry up.

"Go back to sleep. It's alright." He hopes, though highly doubts Harry's going to fall for it.

"What colour is today?" And there it is. If Harry's asking coherent questions he's not going back to sleep.

"White."

"So that's not bad then. Like looking at things through a snow storm."

"Er, not so much. More like being buried in a snowdrift. It's alright if I keep my eyes closed."

"How about I blow you?"

"Well, I'm not sure it's going to help my…" Ron thinks about what he's saying. "Actually, that should help. A lot. Go for it."

Harry sits and starts to push the blanket down to the bottom of the bed where it won't get in the way. Ron is both amused and incredibly turned on at how much room Harry thinks he needs to have a good round of sex. In Ron's opinion if needed he could do it in an entirely full broom closet, but Harry doesn't share the idea. He wants a cleared off queen sized bed, or a stretch of wall. Ron wants to jest about a Quidditch pitch, but he thinks Harry might take him up on it.

He's interrupted from his thoughts by Harry slapping him hard on the hip. "Unless you want me to suck you through your pyjamas, lift up." Ron thinks Harry probably would start making wet marks on the outside of his bottoms, as randy as his lover is, but it would only delay his pleasure, and there's no need for that. So he arches up and Harry pulls them down.

It's only the fifth time Harry's blown him, and Ron already knows that it's his favourite move. Harry has this enthusiasm with his mouth around Ron's cock that doesn't seem to occur at any other time. The only thing that comes close is when Harry's flying. But then the enthusiasm is paired with grim determination, an attitude of "I will win or die trying' that he learned from Oliver Wood at an impressionable age and never turned back from. Now the enthusiasm is only coupled with joy. Ron might never get around to practising his skills if every time they want to get off Harry will suck or fuck him.

The bed starts shaking, the way it does any time Ron pleasures himself. But Ron knows it's not him because his hands are clamped in Harry's hair, and besides what sort of person interrupted a blowjob to get themselves off? For a brief moment Ron thinks it's Neville under Harry's invisibility cloak, watching, irritable about being the only seventh year not getting off.

Then he realises its Harry, jerking off whilst he's licking Ron. And fuck, if that isn't the hottest idea in the history of mankind, that Harry likes giving head enough that it gets him off.

Harry moans around his cock, and goes still. He's coming, and Ron swears he can smell it. His fingers tug on their purchase in Harry's hair and he shoots down his throat. Even if he had the control to warn Harry, Harry wouldn't pull off anyway. His eyes automatically open from their scrunched state, the blinding white somehow fitting with orgasm.

"Shit. I love that. I love you. I could seriously suck you off all day long, for every day of the year. After we leave school, what do you say?"

Ron is about to laugh when the strangest thing happens. The whiteness vibrates in front of his eyes, and slowly the shapes of things reappear. He can see the curtain, his hands on Harry, Harry's head looking up at him as he feels the change of tension in Ron's body.

The silence draws for too long a time before Harry mutters into his bollocks "Look, if you meant for this to be just a Hogwarts thing then—"

"Don't be a prat," Ron responds quickly. Harry blinks at him, chin resting on his pelvis. And that when Ron really sees what he's seeing. Harry's eyes are green. Of course, Harry's eyes have always been green. But Ron is seeing his green eyes.

"Then what? Did you just not want to move in together? Because I always thought, even before this, that—"

"Harry, your eyes are green" Ron interrupts delighted.

"Yeah, and they were yesterday, and the day before that. I wasn't planning on this conversation so early on, but what are your plans for after Hogwarts?"

"Harry. I'm looking at your face and your eyes are green. Your eyes are green in a pink face with black hair. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"You can see me? I saved the world with a blowjob?"

Ron bursts into laughter. The shock and joy in Harry's voice is just about the funniest thing he's heard all year. Harry glares for a moment before the humour becomes contagious and starts laughing himself. A minute or two later, when he's got himself under control he says, "I am not the world, but thanks for that. And it was less that you gave me a blowjob and more that you want to in the future. I think it made The Lady happy, or at least the spell she cast on me."

"And she'll bugger off now?"

"Probably. Unless she decides we should get married in ten years and tries to force me into that too."

"Good." Harry wriggles up the bed until his head is on Ron's chest.

"Want to go back to sleep?" Ron suggests.

"Sounds good." Harry replies. Ron closes his eyes on the red curtains, the gold sheets, Harry's black hair and green eyes. They'll be there when he wakes up.


End file.
